The Tycoon's Christmas Dating Deal
Auteur·e
Kandy Shepherd
Lectures
17,2K
Chapitres
14
In Kandy Shepherd's latest Harlequin Romance novel, an event planner lands the gig of a lifetime when her childhood crush asks her to plan his family's Christmas party, then brings her as his fake girlfriend! HIS CANDY CANE CONTRACT The loss of her parents makes working the holidays difficult for event planner Marissa. But planning a party for tycoon Oliver is an offer she can't refuse. The problem? Oliver — her childhood crush! — needs her to be his fake date… Following his beloved grandfather's passing, Oliver's dedicated to giving their family manor the farewell it deserves. But his grieving grandmother is convinced that Marissa is his girlfriend, and why shatter her dreams? Yet as the festivities ramp up, the terms of their deal blur. Is their chemistry real or just a trick of the twinkle lights?
CHAPTER ONE
MARISSA GRACEY HATED CHRISTMAS. As she strode along Kensington High Street in London, two weeks before December the twenty-fifth, she felt assaulted by Christmas cheer. Everything that could possibly be festooned with lights twinkled garishly in the evening gloom—trees, lampposts, storefronts, even a bus stop shelter, which should surely be illegal. Alcoves and shop windows were stuffed with overdecorated Christmas trees. Clashing Christmas carols, loud and shmaltzy, blared out from doorways.
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la, indeed, she thought with a deep scowl.
Every step she took she was exhorted to feel merry, happy and jolly. But she didn’t feel any of that. Not even a glimmering of merriment. Not anymore.
Marissa knew that behind her back she was called a Scrooge and a Grinch. That hurt. But she couldn’t share the details of why she no longer celebrated the season. Because she couldn’t bear to be reminded of the heartbreak and pain. Bad things had happened to her at Christmas. The car crash five years ago that had killed her parents. Her brother’s departure to the other side of the world. The out-of-the-blue firing from her dream job on Christmas Eve. And the most recent—the betrayal of her boyfriend, whom she’d last year caught kissing another woman under the mistletoe. Disasters that had rocked her world at Christmastime. She’d begun to believe she was jinxed. If she allowed herself to enjoy Christmas, who knew what other horrible thing might happen?
There was excited chatter among her fellow pedestrians when a scattering of fat snowflakes drifted down from the sky. She looked up but resisted the temptation to try to catch a snowflake on her tongue, like she’d done when she was a child. Back then, Christmas had seemed magical.
A man started to sing, very off-key, that he was dreaming of a white Christmas.
Huh, Marissa thought, a sleety, slippery Christmas more likely.
London rarely had decent snow in December. Thankfully, she would be out of here in five days, flying to a small island off the east coast of Bali, where Christmas wasn’t part of the culture. By the time she got back, the decorations and all the painful reminders they brought with them would be taken down.
She detoured into the supermarket—more detestable carols were piped through the store—in search of a ready meal for her dinner. She lived alone in her flat in West Kensington and often couldn’t be bothered to cook for herself. She studiously avoided the displays of mince pies. Her father had loved the small, sweet, spiced fruit pastries, traditionally only available at Christmastime. His Christmas Eve ritual had been to eat an entire packet of six mince pies—with lashings of custard and ice cream—in one sitting, egged on by a laughing Marissa and her brother while her mother pretended to be shocked. Until that Christmas Eve five years ago when the mince pies had remained uneaten in the kitchen while her dad lay still on a hospital bed, attached to tubes and monitors that hadn’t saved his life. It still hurt to see mince pies and remember his joy in them.
When her friend Caity Johnston called on her mobile phone, Marissa had to swallow hard against the lump of remembered grief that threatened to choke her.
‘Everything okay?’ she asked, when she was in control of her voice. Caity was expecting twins, due in the middle of January.
‘Actually, no,’ Caity said. Her friend’s voice sounded anxious, frayed at the edges.
Terror for her friend shot through Marissa. ‘The babies?’
‘Okay.’
Marissa breathed a sigh of relief.
‘But I have to go to hospital and stay in bed until the due date. Or whenever the consultant decides it’s time for the babies to be born.’ Caity’s voice rose.
‘Oh, Caity. What can I do to help?’
‘Could you... Could you get over here now?’
‘On my way,’ Marissa said as she hailed a black cab.
Mentally, she urged the driver to hurry. It seemed the longest trip ever to the west London suburb of Ealing. She’d normally go by the Underground, it was nearly as fast and a tenth of the cab fare, but there was an edge of fear to Caity’s voice that had truly scared Marissa. Two years ago, her friend had miscarried at twenty weeks. Marissa would do anything she could to help her carry her twins to term.
When she arrived at Caity’s house twenty minutes later, a terrace in a street of terraces that she and her husband, Tom, had painstakingly remodelled, her friend was waiting for her. Her face was pale, and she was anxiously wringing her hands. Caity was tiny and slight except for her enormous bump. Marissa noticed a bulging overnight bag in the hallway.
She hugged her friend gently. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I’m sure I mentioned before that the twins share the same placenta. That can be dangerous so the doctors want me under observation. My bump and I will be hooked up to monitors for the next few weeks.’
‘Oh, no!’ Marissa exclaimed, and then immediately backpedalled. She didn’t want her alarmed reaction to add further to Caity’s obvious fears. ‘I mean, that’s good they’re being vigilant.’
‘It’s unlikely I’ll leave hospital until the babies are born.’
‘You’ll be in good hands. Do you want me to go with you to the hospital, to get you settled?’
Caity shook her head. ‘No. Tom’s taken time off work. He’s out getting the car from where it’s parked. But there is something you could do to help me.’
‘Anything,’ Marissa said.
She and Caity had started work as interns in a public relations firm back when they’d been fresh out of uni. They’d both specialised in event planning until there was a big downturn in business and they were both let go from the jobs they’d loved—just before Christmas. Caity had bounced back quickly and started her own company, while Marissa freelanced for her and other marketing companies in the city, trying to find the place where she best fit. Now, at age thirty, Marissa wasn’t sure about what direction she wanted her career to take. She only knew that she didn’t want to tie herself down to the one employer. Not yet. Experience had taught her that it was too dangerous to put her fate in someone else’s hands.
‘I hate to ask you this, as I know you’re not a fan of Christmas...’ Caity began, tentatively, not meeting Marissa’s eyes.
Marissa’s heart sank. Caity was one of the few people who understood her aversion to the festive season. So why was she bringing it up now?
She narrowed her eyes. ‘Er, yes?’ she said.
Caity’s words spilled out. ‘There’s this Christmas event I’ve been working on. Longfield Manor is a beautiful country house hotel in Dorset. Family run. Christmas is a huge deal for them. People come from around the country—even the world—year after year to celebrate the holiday season there, and this year is the first time the family has brought in an event planner to organise the festivities. And now, two weeks out from the most important commission of my career, I have to go into hospital.’
To save her babies’ lives.
The words were unspoken but Marissa heard them.
‘And you want me to step in?’ she said, trying to keep the dismay from her voice. ‘Caity, you know how I feel—’
‘About Christmas? I know. And I wouldn’t ask you if I had any choice. The grandson of the hotel owners, Oliver Pierce, is the CEO of The Pierce Group of hotels.’
‘The most exclusive, fashionable hotels in London. I know of them.’ Although as she’d need to take out a mortgage to buy a cocktail there, Marissa had never been to one.
‘I’ve done some work for him in the past and it went really well, and I need to keep The Pierce Group as a client. Oliver Pierce himself asked me to help with the Longfield Manor Christmas. Marissa, this job could change the entire trajectory for my company. It’s my big break. I can’t risk losing his business.’
‘Couldn’t someone else—?’
‘He’s a very discerning man,’ Caity said, cutting her off. ‘I couldn’t trust anyone else but you to take over this particular job.’
‘Surely there must be another planner who—?’
‘You’re the only person who is good enough and I know you would never let me down,’ Caity said. ‘Or try to steal my client.’
That was Caity all right. A shrewd businesswoman whose boutique event planning business was very successful, yet not established enough to be able to risk losing an important client. Marissa knew how vital the personal relationship between client and planner could be. And satisfied clients led to recommendations and further business. If Caity couldn’t trust anyone else but her—her best friend—to run this job, Marissa could put up no further resistance.
‘Please,’ Caity pleaded. ‘I... I’m begging you. You know how much I want these babies.’ Her voice caught. ‘And I can’t do the job from a hospital bed.’
Marissa took a deep breath. ‘Of course not. Nor should you. All your energies should be going to keeping your babies safe and getting ready to welcome them.’ She had read up about the risks for identical twins who shared a placenta and knew how dangerous it would be for her best friend not to follow her doctors’ advice to the letter.
She had a momentary vision of warm aquamarine waters, golden sands, palm trees—her tropical holiday far, far away from the commercial frenzy of Christmas in London. It had been booked and paid for months ago and she had been eagerly anticipating the escape. But as she focussed on her friend’s wan face, the vision faded away. She needed to be here, and she needed to do this for Caity. She only hoped she’d be able to get at least a partial refund.
‘Of course I’m happy to do the job for you,’ she said. She injected as much enthusiasm as she could into her voice. And was rewarded by the relief in her friend’s eyes.
‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down,’ Caity said. She took a deep breath. ‘I’ll quickly brief you. Longfield Manor is in Dorset, near the coast. Very traditional. Nothing like the ultra-contemporary Pierce Group hotels. It was owned by my client’s grandparents. But the grandfather died this year, so Oliver Pierce stepped in to help his grandmother run it. There’s a story there but I didn’t get a chance to dig into it. You might have more luck. Christmas has always been a big deal, and they want it even bigger and better this year.’
Marissa was determined not to let her friend see how she dreaded the thought of working on Christmas for an entire week. ‘Understood,’ she said.
‘Everything that can be ordered has been ordered. Local staff have been briefed. You’ll find all the files waiting in your inbox so you can hit the ground running. I sent them as soon as I knew you were on your way over.’
Marissa smiled. ‘You were very sure I’d say yes.’
‘I trusted you’d help me,’ Caity said simply.
Marissa gently hugged her friend. ‘You know you won’t have to worry about a thing.’
‘I know. I trust you implicitly. But you can get in touch with me any time.’
‘I promise I’ll try not to bother you.’
It had been heartbreaking when Caity had lost her first baby, and Marissa feared what state her friend might sink into if something were to go wrong with the twins. She had to step up for her. Even though immersing herself in Christmas at some staid country house hotel was the last thing she wanted to do.
At the sound of a key turning in the door, Caity stepped back. ‘Here’s Tom to take me to hospital.’
Marissa greeted her friend’s husband, then picked up her handbag and the shopping bag containing her solitary dinner. ‘Go. The sooner you’re in that hospital bed, the better.’
‘Just one thing before you go. Oliver Pierce is expecting you to stay on site at Longfield Manor for the seven days before Christmas.’
‘On site? For a week?’
‘It’s a hotel. Why would you stay elsewhere?’
Marissa would prefer to keep a distance from a client. But this was Caity’s client so she really had no choice. ‘Done. Can’t say I like it. But done.’
‘And...there’s one more thing.’
A sneaky smile played around her friend’s lips. Marissa knew that smile could spell trouble. ‘Yes?’ she said warily.
‘Oliver Pierce is hot. Really hot. Movie-star hot.’ She put up her hand to stop Marissa from protesting. ‘I know you’re on a break from dating. An overly long break in my opinion. But I respect that. I just thought you should know how gorgeous your new client is. And I believe he’s single. Single, sexy and solvent.’
Marissa rolled her eyes. ‘No, thank you. I won’t ever get mixed up with a client again. Totally not interested. Besides, you know I’m immune to gorgeous men. Next time—if there is ever a next time—I’ll be going for ordinary, average and safe.’
Caity laughed. ‘I wouldn’t call Oliver Pierce safe. Not in a million years would I call him safe.’
Could this be his last Christmas at Longfield Manor? The thought troubled Oliver. If there was one thing he didn’t care for, it was uncertainty. And the future of the beautiful old manor house, which had been in his family for five generations, was shrouded in uncertainty.
He stamped his feet against the cold and rubbed his gloved hands together as he observed the familiar front elevation of the house. It was lit by the soft, early-morning sun that shone from a cloudless winter sky. He never tired of admiring the building that dated back to the sixteen hundreds, its ancient walls made of the local limestone, the peaked roofs and mullioned windows, the perfection of its proportions. The surrounding gardens were stark in their winter beauty, the only splashes of colour coming from large urns overflowing with lush purple pansies, the pride and joy of his grandmother.
Oliver hadn’t lived there for years, but he considered Longfield Manor his home; his grandparents, Charles and Edith, were more his parents than his parents ever had been. He had spent so much of his childhood here, an only child caught in the to-and-fro that had been his parents’ disastrous marriage. And it was the refuge to which he’d fled after his mother had abandoned him when he was fifteen years old. If he honoured his late grandfather’s dying wish, he would have to put Longfield Manor on the market. And there lay the uncertainty.
Just days before he took his last laboured breath at the age of eighty-seven, his grandfather had taken Oliver aside for a private, heartbreaking conversation. His grandpa had known he was dying and he’d told Oliver he feared for his beloved wife, five years his junior at eighty-two. He had shared his concern that Edith could be displaying signs of dementia. It seemed she’d had memory lapses, misplaced things, sometimes seemed confused about long-standing everyday routines, and her devoted husband was worried how she would cope after he’d gone.
It had been gut wrenching for Oliver to listen to that, but he’d owed it to the grandfather he’d adored not to show his own anguish. Grandpa had also worried that with the pending retirement of a longtime trusted manager, overseeing the running of the hotel would be too much for Edith. He’d believed the best option would be to sell, then find Edith a home, perhaps in London so she could be closer to Oliver, somewhere she could easily access the round-the-clock care she might soon need.
Oliver had been shocked, not just by the news about Granny, but also because he had never imagined Longfield Manor would be sold. He had long expected that it would pass down to him—his mother had been disinherited—and in due course to his children. Not that so far, at the age of thirty-two, he had ever met a woman who inspired thoughts of marriage and parenthood. He made very sure his girlfriends knew the score—he wasn’t ready to commit.
He had immediately reassured his grandfather he would take over the hotel alongside his grandmother. Hotels were his business. He had got his love of hospitality from growing up here, absorbing what worked and what didn’t from the way his grandparents ran the place. Longfield Manor was a successful and profitable business, as well as a cherished private home.
But his grandfather had asked him to think long and hard before declaring an intention to add Longfield Manor to his portfolio. Not to make that offer out of sentimentality or obligation. Charles hadn’t wanted the hotel to become a burden on his grandson. Oliver’s life was in the city with his ultra-contemporary boutique hotels. And didn’t he want to expand into New York? Where did a traditional hotel in the country fit into that plan? A hotel that needed hands-on management with buildings that required ongoing repair.
Oliver had acknowledged all that, and yet he fought against the idea of losing Longfield Manor. His grandfather had repeatedly asked him to agree to selling the hotel after he died. Oliver prided himself on being a hard-headed negotiator yet finally, to put Grandpa’s mind at ease, he had acquiesced and said he would ‘look into’ selling. Now Oliver felt duty bound to honour that deathbed promise. Even if he’d had his fingers crossed behind his back at the time.
Since Grandpa’s passing in August, Oliver had observed some out-of-character behaviour from his grandmother but nothing overly untoward. Many of those quirks could be, he thought, attributed to her intense grief at losing her husband of so many years. Granny was grieving, as was he, although he knew he had to keep it together for her sake. The only thing that sparked her back into her old self was discussing plans for Christmas.
His grandparents had put their hearts and souls into Christmas every year. Guests came from around the country—even the world—to share in the hotel’s fabled Christmas celebrations. And Oliver was determined their first Christmas without Charles would be extra special so that his absence hopefully wouldn’t be felt quite so keenly.
To that end, he had engaged an event planner with whom he had worked very successfully at his London hotels. Caity Johnston was a small, blonde dynamo who was totally on his wavelength. She had reacted to the brief on the Longfield Manor Christmas with enthusiasm, and he had been pleased she had accepted the job. However, complications with her pregnancy meant Caity had had to be hospitalised. ‘Never fear,’ Caity had rushed to reassure him. She had secured someone wonderful to take over from her. Marissa Gracey was the absolute best, she’d assured him.
There had been no opportunity to interview Marissa Gracey. He’d had to accept her sight unseen—and that didn’t sit well with Oliver. Marissa Gracey had become yet another uncertainty. He hoped Caity hadn’t overdone the enthusiasm for her substitute. This Christmas was important. A successful celebration would not only lift his granny’s spirits, it would also reassure the guests that the hotel could go on successfully without Charles. In his experience, fans of a hotel liked things to stay the same. He needed to prove to both himself and others that the future of Longfield Manor would be safe in his hands—one way or another.
But planning a traditional Christmas celebration on a grand scale was outside his area of expertise. He needed help. There were seven days to Christmas and as the celebrations went into full swing on Christmas Eve, the countdown was on. He glanced at his watch. Marissa Gracey was due to arrive in half an hour for a midmorning start. He hoped her work would be up to scratch.
Marissa swung her vintage Citroen van through the ornate iron gates that were set between high stone walls and led up to a sweeping gravel driveway lined with well-kept gardens. Even in winter the grounds of the hotel showed a certain stark grandeur. If she was here for anything other than Christmas, she’d be feeling stirrings of excitement.
Marissa had looked up the hotel’s impressive website and read with interest the high-rating reviews on impartial travel sites. The reviews from guests had raved about the beauty of the buildings, the comfort of the rooms, the excellence of the food. It was clear that the hotel’s guests came back again and again and one regular had described it as a ‘home away from home—a very posh home, that is.’
If only she were coming here to work in summer. Or autumn. Really anytime but Christmas. The thought of the extravaganza to come made her feel queasy, but for Caity’s sake she had to overcome her aversion to the job. She could do this. The back of her van was filled with bespoke Christmas ornaments from a famous London designer and all other manner of expensive and stylish decorations that would give an ‘old with a new twist’ feel to the festive decorations here. Apparently, the grandson of the family, Oliver Pierce, wanted to put his own stamp on the family traditions. She wondered why he would mess with a formula that clearly worked.
As the house came into view, Marissa caught her breath. It was stately and magnificent, yet not so large as to dominate the landscape. Framed by two enormous winter-bare oak trees, the hotel sat nestled into the landscape like it belonged—as it had been standing in that very spot for hundreds of years.
She thought of Oliver Pierce with a stab of...not envy—not exactly—more like curiosity, at how it must feel to be born to a place like this. To take the immense wealth that this house and the grounds that surrounded it stood for, as his due. She had grown up in a middle-class family, comfortable but not wealthy. This was a different realm altogether. And that, she had realised from reading the reviews of the hotel, was its charm. A place like this gave the guests the chance to imagine for the length of their stay that they were taking part in an exclusive house party. That was the key to Christmas at Longfield Manor, to create welcoming, intimate but extravagant festivities. A posh home away from home, where the Christmas holiday was utterly splendid and utterly without worry or stress or hours in the kitchen.
She confidently swung the van—its quirky exterior finished in a rich brown and chrome as befit its former life as a coffee van—into the circular drive that led up to the house. The discreet signage at the entrance of the hotel maintained the illusion of arriving at your own house in the country. Marissa knew there was parking around the back, but she’d been asked to check in with reception when she arrived, so she pulled the van into the closest space out front.
Once inside, she caught her breath at the splendour of the entrance hall. Ornate high ceilings, wood-panelled walls, a magnificent staircase, wooden floors laid in a centuries-old herringbone pattern, paintings in heavy gilded frames. A large arrangement of artistically styled winter-bare stems and brightly coloured berries sat in a marble urn on a tall plinth. It was all perfect, but not too perfect, which befit a house of such venerable years. She’d read that the house had been sympathetically remodelled to become a hotel, but on first glance it still retained both the grandeur and the intimacy of a private home to the privileged.
Inside, she was greeted by a charming young woman behind the reception desk. Marissa put down her small suitcase and wondered when she’d meet with the client, Oliver Pierce. She didn’t have to wonder for long.
Almost immediately, the grandson of the house strode into the foyer. Suddenly, the room seemed smaller, as if he took up more space than one man should. He was taller than she’d thought he’d be, and broad shouldered in an immaculately cut dark suit. Black hair framed a handsome—a very handsome—face. Caity was right. He was hot. So hot Marissa could not help but stare. And then, when he got closer, stare some more.
‘Marissa Gracey?’ he said in a deep, well-spoken voice that managed to be just as attractive as his looks. ‘Oliver Pierce.’
All Marissa could do was nod before he continued.
‘You’re right on time. That’s good.’
It was as well he hadn’t expected a reply because she was suddenly without a voice. She felt the colour flush hot on her cheeks then rush back to pale as a realisation struck her.
She knew this man.
Only he’d called himself Oliver Hughes back then. Back when they’d both been teenagers and she’d thought him the most insufferable, arrogant, rude person she had ever met. When he offered his hand for her to shake, she didn’t know what to do.
